


Five Times Someone Notices That Stiles Has ADHD and One Time He Told Them

by 7CuteCreationImagination7



Series: Teen Wolf Ficlets/Headcanons/AUs [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, ADHD, Allison Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gen, I don't think this is angsty, Medical Inaccuracies, Neurodiversity, Pack Feels, Stiles Stilinski Has ADHD, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, but it might be, idk - Freeform, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7CuteCreationImagination7/pseuds/7CuteCreationImagination7
Summary: The title kind of sums it up. This... deviates from canon slightly. I think.I hope you like it.





	Five Times Someone Notices That Stiles Has ADHD and One Time He Told Them

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. 
> 
> Basically, I kind of feel that after season two the script writers just sort of forgot that that had canonically said that Stiles had ADHD? I don't have ADHD, but like? Representation matters! IDK, it made me mad, so, I wrote this. 
> 
> I did try and do reaserch, but as I don't have ADHD, there may be some inaccuracies here. If you spot them, I really didn't mean to offend, so, like, comment so I can fix them. Thank you.
> 
> Also, Peter doesn't show up and Allison didn't die. Just...because. 
> 
> Anyways, I love you all and I hope you like this fic. God Bless, 7CCI7

 1.  Scott was new to this school, and he was terrified that he was going to mess up.

Middle School was a big deal, right? So many movies, books and stories came from peoples’ time in middle school and he didn’t want to mess this up. Sighing pitifully at his inhaler, he raked his hands through his hair. Yeah, everything would be perfect — if you ignored the way that his dad and mom fought, and the way his lungs forgot how to work.

The eleven-year-old boy furrowed his brows, took a deep breath and stepped into the building, hoping desperately that someone nice would be friends with him, that he would slip in seamlessly into the crowd of students.

The teacher called him to the front, and he felt his heart pick up at the sea of eyes — blue, green, brown and black all staring at him. This is what zoo animals must feel like, he thought. But, just as he began to feel like he needed to run like he wanted to push the teacher's hands off his back and tell everyone to stop staring at him, he focused on a boy, at the back.

Light brown— almost golden — eyes flickered towards him momentarily, before looking behind him, squinting for a moment, and then looking out of the window. The boy wasn’t staring, and he hadn’t looked at him like he was an insect.

That was enough for Scott to calm down, smile, introduce himself, and then go to sit next to the boy with the colour-changing eyes.

“What’s your name”

“My name is Stiles — well, that is my nickname, you see, because my parents gave me this awful name that no one can spell, nor pronounce, because it has so many consonants and like — wait, I’m supposed to ask your name, aren’t I. What is your name?”

Scott blinked, surprised by the onslaught of words, most of which he hadn’t caught, the speed at which the boy spoke shocking him. But the look in the boy’s eyes was kind, even if his eyes did flicker around Scott’s face, dark lashes fluttering as he looked at him.

“Uh. My name’s Scott, Scott McCall.”

“Okay. Now, do you know what class this is supposed to be? Because I wasn’t paying attention.”

That was the beginning of an interesting friendship. The teachers were terrified of the pair, as the mischief that they got up to was legendary — at least in the staff room. The problem was that none of the things they did were punishable, not really. The most they could do was give a slap on the hand, because, most of the stuff appeared to be innocent, logical, or just inconvenient. The most recent example was outstanding, though.

Stiles was refusing to tell anyone why he had grabbed a fire extinguisher and had turned it on Jackson Whittemore, and Scott wouldn’t do anything other than say, “I’m so sorry” and “It wasn’t his fault”

The two boys were now in the office, Nurse McCall glaring at the two boys. The Sheriff had been called to a murder, so she was standing in his place, as well as acting as Scott’s adult representative.

The principal smiled at the frazzled mother, then looked down at the boys.

“Well, Mr Stilinski. I think we need to have a chat about what happened today. Why did you cover Mr Whittemore with foam?”

“ He was being mean to Scott. Scott was having an asthma attack so he couldn’t defend ‘imself. I got angry, and Jackson wouldn’t stop, so, fire extinguisher. Jackson was mad at me anyway, he thinks that I’m annoying him when my leg jitters in class. ”

Scott nodded, and rasped out,

” Jackson was mad at me because I made his team lose the football match at lunchtime when I couldn’t breathe”

The principal looked defeated as he looked out to see Robert Whittemore pacing like a caged lion, occasionally wiping the foam off his son’s hair. Melissa’s eyes softened, and she placed a hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Okay. Scott, I will be able to make you an innocent bystander. Stiles… I think we may have to make a compromise. I may be able to get Robert Whittemore off my, and your, back if you agree to have a check-up meeting with the psychiatrist. Maybe we can see if you can get some fiddle things to help you focus.”

Stiles stopped fiddling with the thread coming off his sleeve, blushed, and met the principal’s eyes as he nodded.

“I hope that you will be able to stay out of Jackson’s way in high school boys and that you can get a better hold on your impulse control, Stiles. Have a nice week. “

Stiles ran out and began to walk towards to bus stop, whilst Scott, looked up to his mom in the hallway, glaring at Jackson as he saw Principal Byers grimace before apologising profusely to the Whittemores.

“What did… what did they mean when they said that Stiles had to go to a psychiatrist?”

“ Stiles has something called ADHD, which means that he can’t focus very easily and can be impulsive, and there are medications which can lessen the symptoms. He sometimes need to fiddle with things to that he can focus better.”

Scott nodded, although he didn’t quite get it. Stiles was Stiles— and ADHD meant that he had difficulty focusing, right? Stiles went to the psychiatrist. They spent half an hour commiserating over the stupidity of having to appease rich people before she gave him his regular dosage of Vyvanase and didn’t apply any changes to his file.

Stiles never fully explained ADHD to Scott, and Scott never asked, not even when Stiles mentioned that he was taking medications to try and focus more, to be less impulsive.

But even throughout everything they went through, even through werewolves and fights and all that — there were two constants:

Scott carried stim toys — even if he didn’t mean to. Even when he and Stiles were fighting, or if he left the house to see Derek without Stiles, there would always be a mini Rubik's cube or a bouncy ball in his pocket. Whenever Stiles got nervous, or too excited, or whenever he asked for it, Scott had things in his pocket.

Stiles carried an inhaler, then wolfsbane ashes, and then a vial of mountain ash. The three items are always in his jacket pockets, ready to be used, and ready for Scott to need them. The inhaler isn’t necessary, not anymore, but Stiles did spend five years ingraining it in his mind to have one at all times, so he wasn’t about to just give the habit up.

Those two constants stayed true until the day that both boys, now old men, died.

* * *

 

2\. Derek was not a person that appreciated the craft of deceit.

Humans adored it, viewed it as a dark art, and only wild, feral or extremely selfish werewolves could appreciate the dark art.

Deceit had killed his family. Deceit had nearly killed him. Deceit, in general, got people killed or hurt. Therefore, Derek hated lies, tricks and illusions. He tried his best to not deceive anyone, though he did, sometimes, allow lies of omission to exit his mouth.

Some called him brutal, blunt, or rude. He thought that he was honest.

Honesty was a virtue, wasn’t it? He wasn’t virtuous, no, no way, but he liked people that were honest.

No tricks. No false smiles. Just brutal, pure, honesty and transparency.

And, sticking to his honest nature, he had to admit to himself that this human baffled him.

Which was bizarre, because humans were all supposed to be the same, right? They all fit into certain categories, or had certain traits which all fit together to make a roughly stereotypical person, right?

Well, it turned out that there were anomalies. Stiles Stilinski was one of those anomalies.

The boy was clever, perceptive, and was as loyal as a dog — pun not intended. However, those three attributes painted a picture of a quiet, small boy, kind of a nerd, that didn’t do much.

The rest of his qualities seemed to have no other purpose than to obliterate that stereotype.

The boy was blunt, dangerously sarcastic, had the impulse control of a bomb and never, ever stopped moving.

Hence, the confusion. Derek had tried discipline — alphas were parental figures, and parents disciplined— but that had not gone down well. Partly because the boy didn’t, as he wasn’t a wolf, recognise him as an alpha. Partly because Derek had forgotten that the boy was human, and therefore, shoving and glaring had no other effect to him other than antagonising him. And here he was: in a pool, with nothing but a lanky, stubborn teenager keeping him afloat.

A kanima — why did he have to bite the kid that turned into a kanima? Wasn’t knowing that the boy would be awfully arrogant as a werewolf enough — did he absolutely have to turn into a mindless lizard monster? Really?— was hissing from the sides of the pool, rows of needle-like teeth and reptilian eyes glowing in the dimly lit swimming hall. Derek couldn’t feel anything under his neck and was glaring angrily at the dark mass that was his legs as he felt cold water slap up at his face.

Why? Why did all the werewolves that were present have to be so useless, why was he such a bad Alpha that one of his betas was out cold, the other two missing, one pretending to be an omega, and the last one currently hissing at him?

He frowned when he realised that the boy was talking. Foolish. He was wasting oxygen, oxygen that was needed if he was planning on keeping them both alive.

“…I did once memorise the chemical composition of swimming pool water, but given that I can’t remember it, and I can’t get out of the pool, that isn’t very useful. Ow, legs — I do wonder why it is called lactic acid, I mean, lactose is cool, unless, I guess, you’re lactose intolerant and — wait, hang on, what is the difference between being lactose intolerant and being allergic to dairy? Is it like a scale of the way your body reacts? Or is it that the body releases different histamines? Like…’

The boy continued rambling, jumping from chemistry to biology to questioning the scientific inaccuracies in X-Men films. It made Derek dizzy, but that could be the venom. Or the dread that the boy would save himself and leave Derek to a watery death.

Then Derek smelt it, or rather, he sniffed, and noticed that something was missing. It had been fading for a while now, but now, it was finally gone. This coincided with the topics getting more and more contrasting — random thoughts on marine life went to questions about Descartes, which lead to obscure facts on chlorophyll— and suddenly, it clicked.

Stiles was acting like James, Peter’s youngest son, another human. James had had ADHD, and the fiddling, the lack of concentration, the changing of topics, the faint yet familiar chemical smell — it was all there.

Stiles had ADHD. And Derek hadn’t noticed at all and had told him, on multiple occasions to stop talking. This is where Derek hates himself for being so honest.

He doesn’t trust the kid — no, trust is fickle and is usually ripped in two or burned to a crisp — but, as he is honest with himself… he has been kind of mean.

The boy is getting tired way too fast, he smells like hunger, fear and exhaustion. Derek lets the boy take them to the edge just so he can cling on a bit. It makes Derek’s heart ache, just a bit, as he remembers that, sometimes, before Peter was a murderous creepy wild wolf, before the fire, his uncle would kindly stop James, and remind him to eat or force him to take a nap. The twelve-year-old had grumbled, but it was just part of who James was, the medication leeching his appetite, the ADHD making sleep difficult.

It appeared that these were constants in Stiles’ life as well. Guilt leaked into Derek’s useless, paralysed body as he cringed at the thought that, maybe, werewolves weren’t helping the whole sleeping and eating thing.

Then, Derek’s heart stopped as he watched the boy’s arm slip from the diver’s board and into the water, the kid’s energy giving out. Suddenly, he felt his feet twitch, and he leapt out the water, watching as a panicked, shifted Scott, yanked his friend out of the water, and then gently pulled him on the side.

Derek leaves with Erica and vows to keep the boy safe. The human had saved his life, and it was only safe if Derek repaid the debt by keeping the boy’s life intact as well. It had very little to do with the fact that Stiles reminded him of James, or that Stiles hadn’t once thought of letting Derek drown.

( If he does indulge the bewildering rants sometimes and nudges Stiles to eat when he forgets to, no one needs to know.)

* * *

 

3\. Lydia notices things.

Many things.

But, she isn’t above examining things that she didn’t notice.

The Nogitsune… it was clear that it wasn’t Stiles, and it wasn’t just the homicidal apathy that permeated the creature that was in the tunnels that gave it away. It was the way it didn’t … It was…. Timing.

That is what it was.

Timing.</p>

The Nogitsune had just been…smooth. Graceful and sleek, like a flowing river. It never tripped, never stumbled, its arms didn’t flail in excitement, it didn’t fiddle with hoods strings or bite its lip. It had a perfectly graceful sense of being which was awfully unsettling since it did _not_ belong in Stiles’ body.

But now there was a bigger problem, now that the Void Kitsune had been defeated. Stiles was acting weird.

Stiles had never been sleek or smooth, no.He did babble excitedly when he found something interesting and did sometimes forget what he was talking about— sentences starting and stopping, eyes flickering with excitement. But it had never been quite like this.

What was once viewed as a bundle or quirky personality traits, a unique brand that was just Stiles, now was affecting every area of his life.

Stiles, at the moment, had two modes — Go or Stop.

Go was interesting. Go was like zooming into everything, and listening to Stiles talk about werewolves, or darachs or even the origins of plaid patterns was fascinating. No detail was forgotten, no word was ignored. Every part of the subject was important, and he talked about it with the weight, the meaning that if Lydia didn’t understand the merits of the industrial revolution as he did, the entire world would collapse. The only problem with Go was that Go zoomed in. So, when Stiles spent two full days researching wolf behaviours, that did not mean that Stiles thought about wolf behaviours in his spare time for two days.

It meant that Stiles would forsake all but food and toilet breaks, and food was sometimes ignored, and instead of sleeping, or talking, or leaving the room, would be holed up, eyes squinting and flickering between books, his laptop and his phone. School work, friendships — even talking —appeared to be arbitrary.

Stop was interesting too. Stop wasn’t the word for it, really, but it was the antithesis of Go, therefore — Stop. Instead of zooming in on one particular thing, Stiles switched between focusing on everything and nothing. He flinched whenever the bell rang, just like the werewolves, and he furrowed his brows at the lights like they were hurting his eyes. His notes were a mess, a mixture of half sentences, tangents, and doodles. He daydreamed half of the time and seemed to be in another world, like half his brain was tethered to reality, absorbing all of the information too fast, too quick, too intensely, and the other half just peered at the information apathetically.

Stiles had been flickering between Stop and Go since the Nogitsune had crumbled into dust before their eyes, leaving a dead teenager, and a severely injured one in its destructive wake, among many other casualties. Stiles had also been tired, hungry and kind of depressed after the Nogitsune had left him.

He had fallen asleep in class multiple times, and yet still had dark shadows underneath his eyes. He was still skinny, but where he once ate little, he would eat ravenously, rivalling Scott and Malia.

The mood swings sucked too, and she could see Stiles frowning at himself when he couldn’t laugh at Scott’s jokes.

Lydia wasn’t a genius for nothing. She had, age fourteen, researched psychiatric medications and their chemical compositions to see if any of them could actually mimic neurotransmitters instead of just affecting how they are absorbed.

Lydia knew the signs of amphetamine withdrawal. She also knew the symptoms of ADHD.

Conclusion: Stiles had ADHD, he wasn’t taking his medications, and he was struggling.

Observation 1: His father had spent a lot of money on hospital bills, and, if the insurance was not sympathetic, Stiles medications would be very expensive, so skipping medications would be beneficial to the sheriff’s bank account.

Observation 2: Skipping medications was not beneficial to Stiles’ well being. His grades were slipping, he was frustrated with himself, and he didn’t need attention problems on top of the blatant PTSD.

Lydia knew what she had to do. Her family was rich, no question about it, and paying for six months worth of medication, especially on her prestigious insurance plan, would amount to very little.

A meeting with Stiles’ psychiatrist, a sympathetic signature from her mother, and a little breaking and entering later, Stiles had half a years supply of his medication in his bathroom cabinet, complete with a typed letter from the psychiatrist berating him for not taking them.

Within a week, Stiles was back to — no, he wasn’t back to anything, his entire being would never be the same, not after the Nogitsune.

But Stiles could now focus, was eating and sleeping at a more regular level, and the modes of Stop and Go, though they still remained, a little, did smooth out.

If Lydia read research paper after research paper on how to help people with ADHD after that, it meant nothing.

It had nothing to do with the fact that she hadn’t noticed something right under her nose, or that she wanted to help her friend the best way she could.

Nothing at all.

* * *

 

4.This was not an ideal situation, for either of them.

Isaac himself wasn’t quite sure how they had ended up like this. Well, he did, but… the story was confusing, and he always had to repeat it twice whenever someone asked why he was living at the Sherrif’s house.

Chris Argent had left with Allison to go to France, to a school that would have good wheel-chair accessibility and could cater to Allison’s post-stabbing health issues. Everyone kept on saying that it was a miracle that she had survived the near-fatal wound.

Derek had left with Cora to do a tour of South America, and to escape this doomed town. Which was fair enough, really. Derek had been …used… ( he never really got the full story )by two women, had watched his family burn to their deaths, and had come back to an insane and murderous uncle, and a decapitated sister. So leaving was fair.

Scott had gone with Kira and both sets of parents to Scott’s dad’s family’s lake house, to get away from everything and to relax. Which was all fine, apart from the fact that Isaac had nowhere to live, no pack, and no guardian.

Until the Sheriff had grabbed him by the shoulder at Aiden’s funeral and practically dragged him to his car, and plopped him down next to Stiles. Since then, he had lived at the Stilinski’s and was learning new things every day.

Stiles and he had never gotten on very well.

He didn’t like Stiles, and Stiles didn’t like him — Stiles had made it blatantly obvious that he thought him useless, and he had reciprocated by demonstrating that he really was not very invested in keeping the other boy alive.

And yet here they were, eating cereal in the kitchen, silently agreeing that not making eye contact was the best policy.

This silent agreement had been going on for three weeks.

Isaac had once smelt Lydia, one afternoon, and then a peculiar chemical smell had begun to permeate the atmosphere, but apart from that, no one, not even Scott had entered the house.</p>

Isaac began realising things.

Firstly, Stiles purposefully didn’t touch him and never had. There had been rude— bordering on cruel— insults, sneers and questions, but no touching. Which was nice, because, as much as he tried, he still panicked and would occasionally flinch if someone patted him on the back, or moved their arms too close to his face. It was obviously intentional, which Isaac didn’t know how to feel about.

So he asked Sheriff Stilinski.

Well, he asked the man, after he had sat down with him, how he could understand Stiles better.

Isaac understood Scott ( mean but not abusive dad, divorced parents, asthma, nerd, loyal, heart of gold), he understood Derek (alpha, lonely, angry, too much responsibility too quick, guarded), and he had understood Erica, and Boyd — but Stiles was that one member of the pack that just bewildered him.

A mixture of considerate and blunt, irrational but intelligent.

He had expected a list of Stiles’ favourite movies. Or details on his mother's death —no, he hadn’t expected that, but it would have helped. Whatever he had expected, Isaac hadn’t expected a leaflet on ADHD to be plopped down on his lap, with a stern look that meaningfully conveyed “don’t tell people about this”.

Isaac read through it, and he understood some things, both from watching Stiles or basic stuff he had known from school. Attention problems, occasional hyperactivity, need for stimulation — it sounded familiar, and Isaac got that it affected Stiles.

The weird thingamabobs that Scott carried in his pockets, the faint chemical smell, and the bizarre amount of alarms with obscure reminders on top all made sense. But none of this really made Isaac understand the enigmatic boy that was fervently avoiding him.

Then he read it. RSD. Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. Isaac wasn’t dumb — he wasn’t Lydia or Stiles smart— but he did get decent grades, now that he wasn’t terrified to make noise from watching youtube videos. And there it clicked.

When he had unofficially become Scott’s beta, Scott had devoted a lot of time to him, time that had probably once been occupied by Stiles, since the pair were strangely co-dependent. So Stiles had felt rejected by Scott. And by Isaac. He had, to be fair, snarled at the boy when he had gotten angry at the idea of murdering Not-The-Kanima-Lydia.

So, Stiles felt rejected, his brain handled rejection differently, so he was angry at Isaac for making him feel rejected.

Hence, the not-talking, the idea that he was negative ( though that was helped by the fact that Isaac was a pureblooded pessimist) and the way that Stiles barely spoke to him if Scott wasn’t there.

Okay. He could fix this.

Then the hugs began. Isaac liked hugs.

His dad had never hugged him, but his mom must have before she had died when he was two.

Camden had hugged him and kissed him on the forehead every day, just before school and just before he went to bed until he left for the army.

People couldn’t feel rejected if they were being hugged. People couldn’t feel alone if they were being hugged. People weren’t scared if they were being hugged.

( This plan might have had something to do with the fact that Isaac misses being hugged, and that, if he knows that it will make someone feel better, it feels okay for him to feel happy too)

So Isaac ambushes Stiles, with softness. Stiles, in turn, stammers out apologies, hugs back, and keeps on muttering a tirade of “sorrysorrysorrysorry”, which frightens Isaac more than the silence.

Three days later he receives a letter, telling him that he is very useful and that his dad should never have “done the diabolical freezer thing”. Isaac distantly remembers a few barbed comments and decides to forgive.

The decision took a second, after three minutes of trying to form coherent sentences out of scratched out half-words, micro sentences and repeated apologies.

After that, things smooth out.

Two weeks or hugs, watching old Star Wars movies and receiving thick woollen scarves, and then Isaac makes a decision.

He will accept Mr Argent’s invitation to go to school in France, he’ll be with Allison, and away from this doomed, deathly town. He needs to go somewhere that doesn’t have memories of dead packmates, dead mothers, brothers, and father, or cold nights in a freezer.

Isaac vows to come back. He skypes every week with Stiles and reminds his friend that just because people aren’t talking to him, it doesn’t mean that they hate him.

Isaac receives scarves, some are bought, others are hand made.

The words ADHD or RSD never come up, not once in the two years that Isaac spends in France.

* * *

 

5\. Liam, contrary to popular belief, did not enjoy being angry.

IED sucked. It sucked when people likened him to the Hulk or were scared of him, or when mothers would coo at his bright blue eyes before tugging their children away after someone would whisper in their ears.

It sucked when something happened, when someone would say a random comment, would look at him the wrong way, or when someone did something that reminded him of other mean people and — instead of scoffing, or glaring, like other people did, like he sometimes did, like he was meant to— he just saw red, saw a threat, and just wanted to explode.

It sucked when his chest went tight when his hands shook with rage, the weird feeling of tingling all over his body too over and he just — he had to do _something_. The worst was the post-explosion crash. When he looked at someone’s tear-filled eyes, when he stared at the smashed glass, overturned tables, or when he had to walk into school, half people hating him, the other half jumping over tables to get away from him.

The awful guilt would settle on his chest, and he would vow to not get angry— until something would set him off again.

The werewolf thing certainly hadn’t helped matters. Not only could he hear clearly all the comments that people made about him, not only could he literally smell the anger, angst and fear in the air, the cloying stench of adrenaline, teenage B.O and cortisol wafting over him, but there were actual issues with this.

If someone angered him, bruises and broken bones weren’t the worst things that could happen — he could wolf out, and his claws could kill someone, or he would get whisked away to a lab for testing.

But then, it happened. A classmate said something about “Scott McCall and his gang of freaks”, and Liam smelt it.

It was the now familiar smell of adrenaline, norepinephrine and pure anger. He calmed himself down, knowing that this smell, the smell of no impulse control, the reek of the need to pounce irrationally. But after a second or two, he realised that, for once, the smell wasn’t coming from him.

Scott was frowning slightly and went to put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and then Liam saw it. Stiles was livid. He was ready to fight, and he was coiled, like a spring, like he was about to pounce on the boy, who was still rambling on about how weird Scott and Stiles were, and how people always seemed to die or get in trouble about those “ freaky nerds”.

Like, Liam got it. He kind of wanted to punch the kid too, but, he had taken his meds, and was doing the breathing exercises, and, whilst telling the kid to shut up or yelling at him did seem logical, judging by the way that the older boy was clenching his fists, Stiles was ready to punch, kick and start a brawl.

Scott was whispering into Stiles' ear, and Liam could only just hear it, with werewolf senses. The others were just glaring at the still-rambling jock and weren’t focused on the way that their alpha was desperately trying to fill in for Stiles’ impulse control.

“… it’s okay. He’s just a rich muscly idiot that is trying to assert dominance over a rival —me. Calm down Stiles, I know that you’re angry, and it is valid, but please, just think. He won’t heal, and punching him won’t solve anything. Calm down, and finish your fries, hmm? You need to sleep more, you know, it doesn’t help…”

Scott was speaking what appeared to be a practised speech, one that had been repeated over the aeons, and suddenly his calm reaction to finding out that he had IED made more sense. Stiles didn’t have IED, obviously not, the bouts of anger were infrequent, enough for this to be the first one that he had witnessed, but taking in Stiles’ insomniac tendencies, the way that Scott was coaxing him to eat more… Stiles certainly had something.

Thinking about it, the Pack, as a whole, had been abnormally kind about the IED thing. Lydia had handed out leaflets, and he could tell that people did try to help. Stiles would give soft, grounding touches, without thinking, if someone was being threatening, to show that he was there, and the pack was there, and that fighting was not the immediate answer. Scott was amazing, he would pull Liam out of class, out of rooms, even out of his own home, if the anger was building up too fast, and get him to run or lift weights with him, to give him a release, until the red haze bled out of his system, and he was too tired and too full or endorphins to really feel angry. Malia was great at validating feelings, she would agree with him, but she would show him weird, clever ways to get revenge. Things like stealing pencils, or not passing them the ball in lacrosse or even — Malia gave him cleverer, and less aggressive ways to show his distaste. The point was that the pack accepted that he needed help sometimes, and were way too accepting and calm about it for them not to have previous experience.

Hence, Stiles had something.

When he asked Scott why Stiles had gotten so angry, the older boy just smiled at him lightly, and then said, “ Well, Stiles doesn’t usually have problems with impulse control, but he hasn’t been sleeping well, or eating much — he’s being stupid, really — so his usually low impulse control is near nonexistent. Look, Liam, Stiles has a handle on his ADHD, he just needs a bit of help sometimes.”

ADHD. The four letters and their assigned meaning flittered about his head as he entered his class, and began to take notes. More common than his disorder — more well known, a longer list of symptoms. But it felt nice, knowing that he wasn’t the only one, that the pack wasn’t made of people who just lived normal live. The fact that he sometimes snapped his pencils in two when he got a bad mark, or that he had punched holes in walls because everything was just too frustrating wouldn't make them all run away from him.

If it made Liam miss Stiles, just a bit, when he left for the FBI college, well, no one had to know.

* * *

 

+1.

 This was definitely on the top ten list for most infuriating supernatural difficulties.

It had started out nicely, and happily, and with all the good intentions and sunshine in the world to make a demon scream out in pain and willingly return to Hell, just by hearing the thoughts of this Pack.

It was a plan filled with rainbows and joy and it at no point involved the Fae Court. Stiles knew that it didn’t involve the Fae Court for a number of reasons:

The Hales, as a Pack, had never made a connection with the Fae. The Hale Pack, though it had been a community pillar and influencer through the centuries, had never really made many contacts with other creatures. No one had ever met the Fae before. When Stiles had brought it up— back when Allison, and Boyd, and Erica, and Isaac and— when the Pack was at its biggest, everyone had stated that, though he was right, Fae did exist, no one had actually confirmed their existence visually. The Fae were weird manipulative creatures that did not do well in Party settings.

The original plan was that, because Isaac and Jackson had both elected to go to college in the US, and because Derek and Cora were going from Mexico to Norway, if everyone planned accordingly, it could work out with Stiles, Scott, Isaac, Malia, Kira, Lydia, Derek, Cora and Jackson, Liam and Hayden, all being together, at least for one week.

They had all arrived at the old Loft, that still had Derek’s name on the lease, but after half an hour of hugs, throwing popcorn and chips, and the occasionally play fight, all the wolves froze. Stiles froze a second later, an unfamiliar tugging in his gut urging him to push all ten people behind him.

Though, they did tell him that stopping taking his meds would have weird side effects — he was managing it, keeping lists and reminders and post it notes and scribbling reminders on his hands, eating more and avoiding people when the mood swings got bad, but, it could be that the present paranoia and familiar rush of anxiety wasn’t just a result of withdrawal.

The weird people with obscure trumpet-like things which burst through the wooden door confirmed his suspicion that whatever was going on was not just a withdrawal thing. Eventually, after the Herald guys, and then the dryads and sirens, and then the richer nymphs, and then what he presumed to be the Queen ( the supernatural world is interestingly matriarchal), filled the loft, Stiles spoke, praying that he had all of his facts right.

“ Greetings, Great Queen Taika Shabina of The Faerie Court. I am Mieczysław Aleksander Stilinski, representative of True Alpha Scott McCall. How may we be of service?”

Violet eyes peered at him as if he were an insect, as she grinned at him wolfishly, needle-like teeth the colour of pearls flashing in his direction as she swished her velvety green dress.

“ Good boy, you have studied Fae etiquette. However, that doesn’t affect my plans. You see, I respected the ways of the Hale Alphas — they had reason and cause to avoid us, believing that this town was a danger magnet, knowing little of the Nematon. But, it was common sense, that, as this was no longer Hale land, and that, according to my sources, you became most intimately acquainted with the Nematon, that we were to become allies or enemies. It had been almost two twelve-months since you should have announced yourselves to us. Therefore, before we proceed, I believe that I should have some power, just to show you how… powerful the court is.”

As the last sentence rang out, the Pack all comprehended that they were under attack, bright gold, blue and red eyes flashing, canines elongating and claws curling. Muscles tensed as they waited for a physical attack. The Queen’s tinkling and sinister laughter rang out as she looked Stiles in the eye, and said,

“Why, my dears, did you really think that we would give you a chance to disagree. You’ve already drunk the potion, the spell can be inflicted upon you. The Fae will be back in a week, Child of War and Glory, to listen to your decree: whether we form a Treaty for Peace and Mutual Aid, or a Cry of War it is down to you. Do Widzenia.”

Stiles nodded, just accepting his fate. Of course, he had been the only one to know Fae customs. Of course, the Queen of the Fae thinks that he’s an Emissary. Of course, they all drink a potion with unknown side effects the one week where everyone will be together.

Of-flipping-course this all happens the week after he stops taking Vyvanse— for good, hopefully.

These are the last thoughts he has, before Lydia suddenly crumples on the floor, strawberry-blonde hair fanning out on the carpet. Then Scott’s knees buckle, and before Stiles can catch him, his own vision dims.

The thing is. No. The problem is that. Nah, it isn’t a problem. Bottom line= Stiles has never actually told anyone, sans doctors, teachers and counsellors, that he has ADHD.

Scott knows about his brief prescription of Adderall, but…the word ADHD hasn’t ever been said. On one level, he guesses that the Pack knows. Scott carries those cool doodads which he can fiddle with when he feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin, Derek lets him ramble about whatever his mind has grasped onto that week, he stopped having to survive on only half his meds after six months worth of his dosage showed up, Isaac and Liam both do … cool things, like not questioning his systems and reminders.

On another level how was he supposed to deal with the first week without meds, since…ages… whilst also drawing up a treaty, looking up Fae rituals, and then figuring out what the hell the potion was, and what it was supposedly doing to them.

So far, he had made one list: Weird Things Since Potion  
1\. Faint music.Can’t concentrate on it enough for it to make sense. Something about territory and giving and transmissions.  
2.Fatigue decrease. Lack of apparent need for sleep.Normal levels, for me. Will ask others. Withdrawal supposed to make me sleepy.  
3.Sensory reception has increased — quite overwhelming. Could be what brain is like sans meds. Will check. Did get overload when small.

The list grew. It turned out that everyone seemed to be affected differently by the potion, so, it appeared to be that someone had informed the Fae about the inner workings on the pack (Probably Peter, cryptic homicidal zombie-wolf. Hey, Alliteration. Nice word, rolls off the tongue— all-lit-er-a-tion).

Lydia lost her banshee abilities and wasn’t warned when her neighbour was killed by robbers and didn’t know that her cat had died until she found Prada whining next to its still body. Kira and Malia had found the banshee sobbing in her room. The curse of being able to sense impending doom and death was gone. It didn’t seem like such a curse, it turned out, now that it had disappeared.

Derek and Cora were, in a manner of speaking, detached. Stiles had been wandering, well, he had been on his way to the shops, the music having quietened down so he could focus less, and then he had seen a dark car, and since the Camaro was black, he went over to say hi, in case it was the Hales. But it hadn’t been their car, so Stiles had considered the type of car that Cora would buy, so he had started looking up online cars similar to the Camaro and— Anyway. The short version of the story was that, eventually, the music started up again, Stiles found a cool twisty wristband with which he could fiddle with, and he found Cora clutching a tree on the Hale preservation.

It appeared to be that the bonds to their old Pack, to the new Pack, and to the Hale land ( and probably the Nematon), had dissolved into nothing, once the Potion had taken full effect. So Cora and Derek both didn’t automatically know their way around the preserve, had to use their senses to know where Pack members were, and had to endure the horrible feeling of ghosts of pack bonds— bonds that they didn’t even know were there— disappear.

Hence, Cora clinging to a tree, with little indents marking the letters ( E.R. V.B. C.H.). Tying to feel bonded to her land, her old pack, herself. According to her, once Stiles had wrapped his arms around her, distantly wondering how he had gotten from Beacon Hills high street to the middle of the Hale Preserve, and taken her to his house to have some hot chocolate, Derek was worse.

Derek was found sitting in the cold, damp, charred remains of the old Hale house, a desperate and feral look in his eye. He was shifted, eyebrows non-existent, and had only relaxed once he had Cora in his lap. The other betas were having similar problems, but because none of them had been werewolves for long, and didn’t have strong bonds to the land or to the Pack, the only problems among them were insomnia, increased irritability, and a strange urge to assert dominance.

Stiles connected the dots.

It was weird. The ethereal music — the one with weird lyrics that had a fast beat, urgent and begging, under the smooth hum of the string instruments— was helpful. Stiles had always found that the stimulus helped him concentrate — but it had to the right stimulus. Talking was too distracting, too interesting, too much loud information, but the music was perfect. Everyone else had loud music blasting out of their headphones because they couldn’t focus with this weird music. Apparently, theirs had no lyrics. It turned out that, for once, ADHD was helpful. It was mind-blowing (ha), but, the need for stimuli — the right perfect stimuli that both kept his rampant brain entertained and that managed to not distract him— had come in useful.

The fatigue from the lack of Vyvanase had receded, and years of on and off insomnia had taught him how to manage lack of sleep. In fact, he was sleeping more than usual, the weird music serving as white noise. The Fae were obviously trying to get him to write a bad treaty, one that was a result of no ability to focus, a torn and imploding pack, and no feeling of connection to the territory.

It took him ages to write it — three days. Three whole days. But he got two pages of writing out, outlining what the Pack would and wouldn’t do: Peaceful, unarmed members of the Fae Court may visit the territory We will aid the Fae Court if a proven perpetrator crosses onto Hale-McCall land The Pack wishes to be allies of the Fae Court The Pack will not be allies to Fae which attempt to kill on Hale-McCall land. Those were the basis for the treaty. Just, with, like, a whole page of introducing Pack members, acknowledging the four sectors of the Fae Court, and the entire Royal family, and another half page detailing what the boundaries were and— it was annoying and complicated and it took Stiles ages, but he got there.

The day arrived, and, honestly, Stiles was happy that it had arrived. The Hales were both sad and clingy, never leaving him alone, because, apparently, the Fae had not thought that he would have a Pack bond, so the two werewolves were clinging desperately onto the weak, faint bond.

Scott had been territorial and slightly despotic all week, outbursts of anger and weird reactions to people wearing his clothes or coming into his room — either extreme affection or pure defensiveness. The rest were all fed up with the weird music, the heightened emotions, the lack of sleep, and trying to keep a lid on what appeared to be low impulse control. Stiles, however, hadn’t been affected too badly.

The weird music — yeah, it was weird, and there was probably some subliminal messaging going on there— had kept his brain stimulated and that had lessened the effects of his ADHD. Lack of sleep was pretty much a constant for him, as were things like low impulse control or difficulty concentrating.

But still. Bad Fae.

The Queen arrived at the loft, the same mess of dryads, nymphs, sirens — all types of fae. They were beautiful, now that Stiles wasn’t terrified of being poisoned.

The dryads all had dark, oak tree bark skin, apart from the one toddler with greenish skin. Oakleaf crowns adorned their heads, with green silken hair cascading down their backs. They all had chlorophyll green eyes, with no pupil or iris, just a white eyeball with green veins spidering around it. They all wore soft white robes, but vials of potions and poisons could be seen in pockets, thick sheaths holding daggers and sharp pieces of wood.

There were water nymphs, with bright blue eyes, green-silver skin, which reflected the light, and seaweed green robes and dresses. Adornments of coral, pearl and shells were laid against collarbones, wrists and foreheads. Pure salt daggers were laid against their thighs, along with crushed marine plants.

Flower and Plant nymphs were amongst them. Crowns of roses, lilies, tulips and violets were growing — actually growing— on their heads. Dried petals and herbs were woven to make tunics and togas, and they lay against the pea-green skin. They all had coffee brown eyes and were growing belladonna, aconite and oleander, vines and flowers which curled around the nymphs’ wrists.

The sirens, though, they were the ones that looked terrifying— even before you noticed any weapons or poisons or whatever on their persons. They were terrifyingly beautiful. Opalescent eyes, blue-grey hair and silvery garments which looked like fish scales. Their mouths were blurred slightly and hurt to look at, but rows or needle-like teeth were visible, through the fog. They were their own weapons.

The Faerie Queen nodded, and spoke, her voice a saccharin mockery of a mother’s doting coos.

“ I hope you had an enjoyable week, McCall Pack of Beacon Hills. I do not apologise for our… punishment… but any effect it may have on the treaty is lamentable. Now, Emissary Stilinski. May I look at the treaty?”

Stiles handed her the three pieces of paper, nervously tapping his hand against his thigh, his finger itching to play with something. Scott gladly passed him a bracelet and preened at Stiles’ appreciation. The Fae had clearly forgotten to take the spell off because Coral was still refusing to let go of Derek’s arm, and Scott was in "Territorial and Emotional True Alpha Mode ™.”

The Queen smiled, bright red hair brushing her cheeks, and began to read. The smile dimmed and continued dimming as smugness and victory were replaced by confusion and frustration.

“ You appear to have written a rather… bulletproof… treaty, Emissary. Quite… commendable. It seems that you are quite intelligent and—“

The woman broke off in a snarl, the force of having to praise someone who had not fallen for her tricks clearly taxing her. She spoke in the tongue of the Fae, and before anyone could react, the entire troop was arranged for an attack.

Daggers were drawn, potions unstoppered, flowers crushed and sirens un-gagged. But, Stiles didn’t notice the details.

There were too many, too much, and all he could focus on was that the Queen was feeding her troops power. The would walk past them, and their eyes would brighten and then glaze over, their muscles would loosen, and their faces would be laden with bloodthirst.

The sirens had Lydia and Scott crying, whimpers of “Allison” and “Aiden” cutting through the room, as the sirens brought them over to the edges of the daggers. Cora, Liam and Isaac were all fighting against the water spirits, gagging and blinking as salt water was thrown at them, and then trying to protect the cuts and slashes from the salt.

Derek and Jackson were working with Malia, Kira and Hayden to take down the Dryads, Flower nymphs and Herb nymphs, while it was working, everyone was tiring fast, green and red blood smeared on the floor, roars and grunts and moans ringing through the air.

Stiles knocked the two sirens out, bashing their heads together and continuing to sing under his breath, distracting his mind from the false sound of his mother singing, “ …another one bites the dust.. and another one gone and another one gone and…”

He locked eyes with the Queen and baulked at the pure hatred in her eyes. She had planned on breaking the pack, dominating the territory, and probably using the Nematon for herself. Now, she was killing the Pack to get what she wanted.

Stiles couldn’t focus on anyone else, and he just strode through the battle, ignoring the cuts, bruises and attacks coming at him. The boy leapt up and held the salt dagger of a water nymph he had knocked out against her neck.

The room stilled, but he couldn’t focus on anything else, not now.

“Clever boy. Go on, kill me, be the murderer you were meant to be. Be the monster. Kill the Queen of the Fae. We did everything, whispering malicious thoughts, making you forget to eat and to sleep, grabbing your attention with music, a broken pack — nothing. You won. So do it. Be the monster. Just tell me, how? What spell? And then you may kill me.”

Stiles smirked. She wanted him to tell her a spell that worked against the Fae, and during his explanation, get her own Fae to kill him. No. No way.

“ It’s called ADHD you witch. Have fun in Hell”

At that, he plunged the dagger into the jugular of her neck. She had told him to kill her, practically goaded him into it, so, according to the Fae Court laws, he was innocent. The fae children dropped their daggers, some bursting into tears at the sight of their blood streaked arms. Many of the nymphs looked guilty once the strange enchantment had lifted, eyes clearing to see the bloodshed.

Only the Queen had died, but many were injured. The spell had lifted, so Scott didn’t growl when the leader of the Dryads and the Chieftain of the Sirens went to him with an apology, he didn’t put Liam behind him nor try to kill them.

Derek and Cora stopped looking so heartbroken and sighed in relief. Lydia and the Betas all looked at him in wonder though.

Oh. He had broken the rule.

The “ We don’t mention Stiles’ ADHD out loud rule”.

Whatever.

He hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours, he had cuts and bruises all over his body, and he had no clue when he last slept.

He distantly saw Malia walking towards him before spots clouded his vision.

  
Stiles woke up on the couch. The heavy, itchy feeling of bandages on his skin, compounded by the light haze of painkillers in his blood and the faint smell of antiseptic told him that Melissa had arrived.

The couch was soft and nice and Stiles wondered about the material. Did Derek look for this material specifically? He was certainly rich enough to buy expensive stuff. The material was super soft, and, wait, did werewolves have a specific sensitivity to materials? Hang on, no, they wore jeans and leather, and Erica had worn those tight lacy things so it couldn’t be and—

“ Stiles, wake up, please. I can hear your heartbeat, and, I don’t care if this is the first time you’ve slept in three days, Mrs McCall needs to check you over properly.”

The boy remembered that oh, yeah, he had to open his eyes, and looked around.

The werewolves were all healed now, apart from a few spectacularly deep gashes or broken bones. Though Derek and Cora were subtly scenting everyone, their hands touching someone’s wrist, or neck, or cheek at all times, there was none of the desperate yearning for a bond, none of that awful loneliness and desperation that had been with them all week.

Scott and Lydia looked quite miserable, Kira cuddling up to Scott and telling him, whilst trying not to jostle his broken arm, that it was okay for him to miss Allison, and giving him reassuring kisses and hugs.

Lydia was being comforted, surprisingly, by Liam and Hayden, both unsure, both rather wary, but they were spouting vaguely reassuring things and would pause to look up “reassuring quotes” on their phones before speaking again. “

‘Kay, that was wild. Can I just say that, like, women — especially supernaturally charged women— are terrifying. No, seriously. Why are the women always homicidal? Like, you girls, all of you, are terrifying, but like, good scary. Like, if the zombie apocalypse began, we would all hide behind you. Wait, Derek, do zombies exist? Cuz if they do then I am like—“

“Stiles, why don’t you smell… like you? I thought that they spell had worn off?”

Stiles paused, then remembered his last words before passing out. He was done with the hiding. ADHD was part of him, and whilst it sucked sometimes, and people were stupid about it, thinking that his meds were drugs, or that it was a “cute and quirky” trait for their OTP to have, it was him.

“ Oh. I’m not taking my Vyvanse anymore. That’s why I’m acting, and I guess smelling ,a bit… different. Well, more different.”

Melissa approached him, and then he braced himself. She had a Mama bear look about her, and he was terrified. She sat down next to him and pressed a cliff bar into his hand before pulling him into a hug.

“That was dangerous. Scott told me. You ended up right in the middle of it. I’ve known you since you gave Scott a lecture on forgetting his inhaler in the second grade. You can’t die. Stiles, you really have to look after yourself. That includes telling people about the withdrawal, and getting off the meds”

Stiles wanted to open his mouth to protest — he was nearly twenty and had survived his first year of college, thank you very much— when Malia sat on him and growled, eyes flashing an icy blue.

“ You are my anchor to humanity. If you die, I lose it. So had better survive to get married to a nice person, have kids, and grow really old. Also, what is Vyvanase?”

“You know how I have ADHD?”

Malia, Cora, Hayden, Jackson and Kira all shook their heads. Derek and Melissa frowned at Stiles, and used their glares to convey a very eloquent message of “Why didn’t you tell them you fool!”

“Well, I have it. I used to take a medication to make life easier, but I’m testing out how everything would work out without it. Vyvanse was the medication, and this was my first week without it.”

Stiles braced himself for jibes, or jokes or all the weird and annoying things that people did when they found out about it.

But nothing really happened. Scott, shoved the chocolate protein bar into his face, Derek and Cora began to bicker with Isaac as to whether they should go to McDonald's or KFC for lunch, and Kira just began awkwardly fluttering around checking everyone’s healing wounds and scratches, before Lydia grabbed her by the arm and began to tell her what hairstyles would suit her.

It was anticlimactic, and not, in a way.

Stiles had expected — well he wasn’t quite sure what he had excepted. Incredulity. Poorly tasted jokes. Disbelief. Anger. Rejection. Condescension. Teachers and adults who knew usually reacted in one or more of these strange ways.

But everyone had just sort of taken it in their stride and just sort of… accepted it. It was nice. The intense feeling of relief flooded into his bloodstream as he munched on the bar. Though, that could have been the glucose. But relief and affection were probably mingling in with the glucose molecules.

 

  
It would be okay.

 

 

  
It would all be okay.


End file.
